


The Dinner Series

by whowhatsitwhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, stuff and nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:26:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whowhatsitwhich/pseuds/whowhatsitwhich
Summary: “Would you like to…”“…have dinner?”“…solve crimes?”Small moments inspired by courses in a formal dinner. A little silly. A little fluffy. Hopefully, fun.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Would you like to…”

“…have dinner?”

“…solve crimes?”

Both of them wore perplexed expressions…him perhaps slightly more than her because there’s no way she could know what association he placed on a simple invitation to dinner. Would he like to? Yes. With her? Doubly so.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner…dinner…dinner. Mid-morning snack. Midnight indulgence.

Whatever she wanted; however often she wanted it.

Yes, indeed.

But for now, he stuck to the plan. Cases. Deductions. Distractions.

Dinner….well, of course they’d have dinner.

He just needed additional time to work out the menu.

 

* * *

 

_amuse-bouche: a small appetizer meant to tease the palate before the meal_

Any chef worth their salt would say that a successful dinner doesn’t succeed or fail on the basis of one course. Rather like a great piece of music, it is built note by note and course by course until one can conceive of the spectacle in its entirety.  Sherlock knew his plan called for patience and timing. It couldn’t be rushed or forced; not if it was to be perfect. Molly deserved perfection and he was determined to deliver it. 

The opening notes had to be subtle but engaging….drawing one in so that they were intrigued enough to continue the journey. How to entice Molly Hooper? That was the question. He knew a hundred ways to pull her into his web but they echoed of all the times before that he’d manipulated her to his gain. Focus…he needed to focus. There had to be a way and he was determined to find it. 

Across the lab, she was absorbed in her work…making notes on the liver slides she’d been studying all morning. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she traced a column of data and then chortled, obviously pleased with her findings. Sherlock smiled to see it. That was Molly, passionate and steady and quietly brilliant. She gave everything she had to whatever she did. There was no holding back, not with her. If only he could be so fearless, so open. 

“Sherlock, come see,” she waved him over, her smile luminous. “Here! See this? It’s the final bit I needed to finish my research. The numbers are even better than I hoped…almost by a factor of five! Five, Sherlock! Can you believe it?” 

“Of course.” He smiled at her, pleased by her success and by the way her excitement made the amber flecks in her eyes shine. He took the data in at a glance and saw that her margin was closer to six rather than five. Her paper would be very well received. “I’d be happy to take a look at it after you get it together. Whatever you like?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you!” 

It took everything he had not to hug her. He stepped into her, arms lifting and his answering grin going all the way up to his eyes. Her gasp held him still, frozen in a parody of an ensuing embrace but then Sherlock did something he rarely allowed…he acted on his emotions rather then on what his brain told him he should do. 

Her pleased laugh was music to his ears as he gathered her in and wrapped her up. She settled into him as if she belonged there; her curves and his angles like puzzle pieces fitting together. “I’m proud of you, Molly Hooper. This is excellent.” 

“You are? Of me?” 

“Yes, you and I am.” 

The embrace lingered, drew out like a promise of things that could be and would be given the chance. Resting his cheek on her crown, he hugged her closer and vowed do whatever he could to load the dice in his favor. A Holmes never left anything up to luck if they could help it. 

 

* * *

 

**appetizer**

_I can conquer the world with one hand, as long as you are holding the other.  
~Megan Smith_

Rosie Watson was the undisputed master of all she surveyed. 221B Baker Street was her kingdom and she ruled it well if with an iron fist. None was more deeply in the little girl’s thrall than her godfather, the renowned Consulting Detective whom Rosie called “Sherwonk” much to his dismay.  Woe betide anyone else who dared to call him by that title. The only one to chance it was Molly Hooper but she had her own special brand of immunity. 

Tuesday, the day that Molly usually sat for their little princess, dawned clear and bright. She picked Rosie up just after breakfast and told John they planned to spend most of the morning at the park and then over to Marleborne for a treat. Rosie adored a little cake shop they’d found on another outing so Molly took her there whenever she could. 

Their first stop was an ornamental lake where swans glided serenely about under a gingerbread bridge. Rosie called to them, smiling up at Molly when one came close and held out her hand for a bit of kibble. Her laughter as the white birds ate the pieces filled up the air like music. They then went to the swing set and took two that were side-by-side. Molly gently set the little girl in motion and then pushed off, leaning back and making silly faces at the baby as she pointed her toes toward the sky. 

It was a weak facsimile of flying but at the height of her arc with the little girl craning her neck to follow Molly’s path, she felt something close to freedom take her over. “Hi, Rosie! Hello, pretty girl.”

“You’re a bad influence, Molly Hooper. Our Rosamund will be prone to walking a high wire as it is. She needs little encouragement.” 

Tilting her head back, she grinned at Sherlock as she swung her legs to go higher. “What are you accusing me of, Sherwonk? Miss Rosie and I are having a lovely day, aren’t we, Rosie?” 

“Sherwonk,” Rosie crowed, kicking her feet and making her swing go hither and yon when pulled even more laughter from the girl. Sherlock echoed her as he crouched behind the girl and gave her a push. “Push Molwy, Sherwonk,” her Highness ordered imperiously. 

The detective shook his head but moved to obey, his fingers brushing Molly’s hips as he followed Rosie’s directive. Molly in turn kicked her booted feet to give her arc even more momentum. Back and forth, back and forth. Higher and higher, she flew with only the fleeting touch of Sherlock’s hands on her back and sides betraying his continued presence. At the apex of her swing, Molly reached back to a dim childhood memory and bailed out of the swing, arms windmilling as she strained toward the blue blue expanse of sky. She heard Sherlock’s startled exhalation of her name echoed by Rosie’s delighted shouts. 

Molly stuck her landing like an Olympic hopeful and turned on heel to give her audience a flourishing bow. “Not until you’re older, Rosamund,” Sherlock admonished the child as she tried to mimic Molly’s impressive dismount. “Don’t even consider it.”

“You’re no fun, Sherwonk,” Molly stuck her tongue out at him as she eased the girl from the swing and sat her down. Rosie promptly scampered to her uncle and lifted her arms; where she was picked up and her nose playfully tweaked. 

“You have a questionable definition of fun, Molly. What would John say if his daughter ended up in A&E while on an outing with a doctor. Lucky for you that I happened by.”

“Lucky for me,” she repeated, a lopsided smile blooming on her lips as she watched the two of them together. When he caught her eye and smiled back, Molly once again felt like she was flying. 


	2. my cup runneth over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started to post this as a separate work but figured it fit with this series so I'm putting it here.

_“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” ― Margaret Atwood_

It was too much, a embarrassment of riches truth be told. She felt like she was coming apart at the seams trying to contain everything she felt. It could not be done. 

For so long, Molly had subsisted on stolen glances, offhand comments, and sideways flicks of a smile that barely bent his lip. It was enough. Until a phone call and a forced admission made going back to that famine unthinkable. Impossible. 

 _You say it. Say it like you mean it._ Never could she ever have predicted the effect of hearing those words, the sheer seismic shock of her world tilting on its axis. Those reverberations shook her foundations but what came after…him on her doorstep at a misty morning hour, tumbled curls and troubled eyes and battered hands…pounded them to rubble. 

He laid it all out: Eurus and Sherringford and a series of tasks designed to take him apart. A coffin. A threat and a promise. Emotional context that destroyed him every time. Her fate in his hands and all those complicated little emotions that he’d gone to great lengths to put aside. She listened to it all, his sad and sorry tale, and then silently stole to the kitchen to gather what she needed to fix his hands.  Bandages, a blanket about his shoulders, a warm cup of tea rounded out her ministrations and then she sat on the table before him, her elbows on her knees as she studied him. 

“You said it twice.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I did.” 

“And the second?” That one was a question. 

“The truth.” The admission was given reluctantly, dragged from his as poison drawn from a wound. Sherlock couldn’t look at her. He fixed his gaze on his tea cup and let the heat soothe his aching fingers. “Every word. Both times.” 

“You…you mean….Sherlock? You love me?” 

“Molly, I…” The look in his eyes enthralled her as did the way he slid to the edge of the cushion until his legs bracketed hers. One hand brushed her cheek while the other gently grasped her shoulder to draw her in. When his lips touched hers, it was as if a switch had been flipped and the numbness that had enveloped her fell away like fog before the burning glare of the sun. 

This. This. This…oh my god…this was a feast. A cornucopia. An overindulgence to all of her senses and she fell head over heels into it. She gorged herself on him: the soft warm press his of his mouth, the silky satin tangle of his curls wrapped around her fingers, the muffled encouraging noises he made deep in his throat when she moved closer. Breath and thought and what this meant were left for later consideration. She’d waited for so long and judging by how eagerly he responded, he wasn’t waiting another minute. 

“Stay,” she heard herself say. “Won’t you please? Sherlock?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Molly,” he returned while offering up that sideways smile she’d come to treasure. “Not without you.” 

All she could think in that moment was a line from some movie she’d seen once upon a time…”my cup runneth over.” 

 


End file.
